


Finding Your Wings

by The_LupercalXVI



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors, warhammer 30k
Genre: Betrayal, Blood, Bloodlust, Bloodthirst, Chains, Character Death, Demisexuality, Gen, Khorne, Murder, Name Changes, Nurgle, Oaths, Pain, Rebirth, Ruzal, Slaanesh, Torture, Tzeentch - Freeform, Vampires, Vows, Wings, angel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22103680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_LupercalXVI/pseuds/The_LupercalXVI
Summary: Some story about my lovely little Blood Angel, Sariel.Rating may change. Tags will change.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1: Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewrote this chapter to make it more personal to the main character before writing more.

Every moment since Sanguinius fell had torn at his soul. He felt like nothing, abandoning his oath name, Sariel, because he’d failed to protect the one who had given him not only life, but purpose. He noticed his brothers, but didn’t acknowledge them. The past century he’d only felt darkness. Or had it been two centuries? He didn’t know.

But he did remember the day a chaplain came to him and gently placed a goblet in his hands. He stared at the gold, the embellishments of ruby and the etchings of the great histories of the Blood Angels. He drank deep of the wine inside - the chaplain insisted it was  _ Terre Refosk _ \- and panted weakly when the cup ran dry. As the chaplain refilled, he removed his helm. He smiled, almost sadly, and offered the cup again. He-once-Sariel took the goblet and again gulped, ignoring the Astartes next to him with black and white paint. The Chaplain muttered soft prayers, ending with a softer “The Emperor Protects.” Another goblet full of wine, and Once-Sariel drained the cup again, feeling stronger. He didn’t need armor. All he needed was vengeance.

“If you can get him into the side room,” someone in the distance called. A familiar voice, almost like father’s. He stood willingly, the Chaplain taking his arm with a tear running down his face. Once-Sariel knew what that meant. The fight was bad. They might lose many men. Traitors were threatening them. Traitors had to die. If enough traitors fell by his axe, the Primarch would be okay. They would all be okay. He could do it. He  _ would _ do it.

“Captain Sariel, today we relieve you of needing to command your brothers, and instead, free you to fight with the ferocity you would inspire us all to wield. May the Emperor guide you to His Side, and may your path pave the way to our father for future generations.”

Their words were an honor. He was free of the requirements of leadership, finally free to fight with no reservation. Finally free to cut down every damned traitor, rip them apart, spill their worthless blood and never stop. Constantly cut them down, revel in their screams, embrace their final moments of fear, and repeat. Forever if he had to. Yes, he would save the Imperium from their hands. He would end the heresy. He would stop his traitorous brothers, and they would all be free.

He-Who-Was-Once-Sariel never realized that he was still surrounded by Blood Angels, and lost touch with the fact that the Horus Heresies had ended a millennium ago. He simply clutched his axe and waited, spittle on his lips as he thought of the glorious fight that he would win soon. He never heard the chaplain say with shivering breaths,  _ “Captain Sariel, you will soon be free of duty, for now, now you join your brothers in the Death Company.” _

***

He did not know who he was. Or what he was doing. He only knew that he had to save his Father. He had to, and nothing would stop him. His fury grew with each splatter of blood over his face, and after what felt like hours, he saw in only three colors. Red, Black, and Yellow. He ran. He kept cutting through the enemies. He would save his Father or he would die trying. Horus Lupercal would not stop him. The Emperor would not stop him. If he had to kill everyone in the galaxy to save Sanguinius, he would. Loyalty to anything else did not matter.

_ More to the left, no mercy. _

It wasn’t his voice. It wasn’t a commander. But it was right, and that meant there were more who dared stand in his way. In seconds he tore through them, more blood spraying over his face. His hair had grown heavy with blood and various other bodily excretions. His eyes narrowed and he continued, his once blue power axe red from his journey. Even the lightning arcs from it were red. Red as vengeance, red as fury, red as the death the traitors deserved.

_ They tear at your flanks, Angel, fight them! _

Again, it was right. He snarled, baring his fangs and lashing out with his axe. The bolter wasn’t good enough. Too merciful. They deserved to be gutted, the gushing of their blood only surpassed in his pleasure by their faces gawping in horror. He would provide them a death blow after sneering. Over, and over, he would end them as his feet ground through the halls of the accursed ship.

His enemies had horns sometimes, tails, mangled, featherless wings, all signs of heresy. Betrayal. Nothing worth preserving. His brothers were lost from the other Legions. Only the Ninth had any sanity left. And he had to get through the Arch-Traitor, Horus Lupercal, a man he’d considered father for so long—he could not dwell on the past anymore, only think about the purging of these fiends and save his Father.

Or die trying.

***

The Rage deepened, every swing of the axe only making him swing harder and more often. He did not care that his body ached, nor that he couldn’t tell who his enemies were anymore. Everyone kept attacking him, some wearing the guise of the Sons of Horus, some traitorous Word Bearers. Sometimes they would change form mid swing, evolve into some form of daemonic entity as his blade split their chests or guts. They all screamed in agony before he silenced them. He couldn’t care less about their pain. It could not compare to that of his Father’s gasping, choking, betrayal from his beloved brother. He had to keep moving. He had to stop it.

The sharp pain in his gut only made him spit blood once before he resumed hacking through traitorous scum. He felt something move behind him and turned to slice at it, only to find a blade at his nose. From the traitor that hurt his heart the most. The First Captain of the Luna Wolves was about to end him if he didn’t find a way to disarm his former brother.

“Ezekyle, don’t force me,” his voice growled as he squeezed the handle of his power axe.

“We’re far beyond that now, Sariel. You will either surrender, or you will die,” Abaddon responded, his armor changing somewhat. More gold, a darker Eye of Horus. The scars on his face seemed older, deeper, and then the area around them flashed red, black, then gold.

“What is happening?”

“Things have changed, brother…now we see if you can change, or if you die.”

He looked up and felt his entire body shudder in the closest thing to fear he could muster. Bright gold eyes, reflecting the wrath and mystery of the Emperor Himself, stared at him with a muse behind them of vengeance, curiosity, and cold, bitter amusement.

Reality dawned on him as the screaming blue blade dragged over his cheek. Abaddon the Despoiler, heir to the Arch-Traitor was taking him captive. He’d been sent to die, a victim of the Black Rage inducted into the Death Company of the Blood Angels, and instead, been caught by the ever-gaping maw of Chaos.

Before he could react, though, his body collapsed. His adrenaline was gone, his body exhausted from constant fighting, and his armor too damaged to keep him going.

“Chains. Gentle for now. They don’t usually break out of that,” a hot voice said. Footsteps and clanking metal sounded as his eyelids fluttered and his breathing slowed. The darkness calmed him, and he silently mocked himself.

Darkness, of all things, comforted him. Darkness did not care who lived. Darkness did not care who died. And eventually, there was only darkness.


	2. Chapter 2: Light

He had not expected to wake up, but once he did, he realized he was not in good company.  _ Something _ was breathing heavily behind him, gurgling and snarling at every breath, and his arms were chained to the ceiling. His feet were in manacles and his chest was pressed firm against the wall. He could smell and taste blood. He wanted more of that, but the rest of the situation couldn’t end soon enough. 

_ Slave, slave, it hungers, it does, _ another something whispered. It was far too elegant to be natural.

“Back off, both of you,” the cursed voice of Abaddon ordered. A giggle and a snarl sounded before two pops - one crisp, one more of a slurp - echoed through the room. He tugged against the chains only to feel a blade cutting into his back. He yelled, realizing the blood he smelled and tasted was his own. 

“Stop!” he cried, knowing it was pointless.

“You’re really in no place to be giving orders,  _ Ruzal, _ ” Abaddon stated. The name made him gasp. It was his, whether or not he wanted it. Something greater had forced it on him.

Something beyond the room they were in. Blood began oozing down his spine, over his buttocks, dripping onto the floor. He counted the drops as they sped up until it was just a constant flood. Had the chains and wall not held him upright, he’d be a heap on the floor, possibly even crying. The hunger and the powerlessness overwhelmed him. 

“Let me explain to you exactly what is happening,” Abaddon stated, moving the blade from Ruzal’s back and running the bloody flat over his throat. “You are either going to agree to serve Chaos Undivided, agree to serve a specific Chaos god, or become a meal for whichever ones send daemons here to feast on you until all that is left is a soul, and that will serve them just as well.”

Ruzal did not speak; the gravity of the situation making his knees tremble. He couldn’t collapse, a sickly crack as his weight shifted dislocated his wrists. His eyes burned - it wasn’t normal for Astartes to be so sensitive to pain, he knew - and he took in a sharp breath when the edge of Abaddon’s blade crept towards his chin.

“Fear,” was the only word uttered. Ruzal had rarely tasted fear, mostly anger, despair, sorrow, agony, but perhaps only once or twice was it ever fear. Perhaps more before he’d become Astartes. He didn’t really remember much from then. He was young on Baal, he did trials to get accepted, and he passed the tests. Eternity in surgery later, and he was a man of great stature with a hunger for war. He’d learned to tame those hungers. He’d never really been afraid, only disappointed in himself when he failed, and desperate to do better.

Fear wasn’t something he knew how to do. He couldn’t be good at it. He couldn’t tell whether or not he was even showing it right. But one thing was certain. He could feel it in every cell in his body. The blade withdrew as Abaddon’s unclothed fingers traced through the open wound. They explored the cuts, pulling apart sections that threatened to heal too soon.

“You’re stubborn, Ruzal,” Abaddon muttered as he dug fingernails into the exposed carapace. Ruzal - he couldn’t quite remember his name from before - gasped and again tried to get away. A soft, amused chuckle behind him choked out what little hope he felt. He pushed against the wall to try and find some form of leverage only to feel Abaddon’s arms wrap around his chest.

“And you’re not going anywhere until I say you are,” the Despoiler taunted. His breath was hot on Ruzal’s neck, nails digging into his chest as Abaddon pushed Ruzal forward. There was a long moment of silence between them, an unspoken respect, and an unwanted hate born from the paths of their fathers.

“It’s going to hurt worse soon. Try to rest during the lull. The mutations always hurt, from what I’ve been told,” Abaddon whispered, hands massaging Ruzal’s chest now. They lingered over his hearts and for a moment, Ruzal thought Abaddon was going to either cry or kiss him. Perhaps both. But the hands fell away and his former friend stepped back.

“A little more blood from you,” Abaddon stated, voice deceptively strong. Ruzal knew that the former first captain was not some monster that killed and destroyed only to further his goals. There had to be something more to the madness Abaddon led. There had to be pieces of the man still inside -

A knife jabbed into his lower back. Ruzal grunted, unable to fight, leaning against the wall for support. He could feel the room moving around him, daemons cackling and licking their lips as they waited for him to die. He was too proud to die. He hoped his body agreed.

“Why?” Ruzal muttered as his body began to shake. He couldn’t stop it, there was no power left inside to fight the fear or pain. Astartes or not, he was ultimately just a boy turned warrior, and now he was a warrior turned boy.

“You’re too useful to kill,” Abaddon stated plainly. “An Angel turned against the Imperium is certainly a valuable weapon, you understand. Harness that rage you found when Horus killed your father. Use it against those who did nothing to defend him.”

“And what of you bastards that attacked him!?” Ruzal shouted, the fury inside him spilling out in ways he’d not felt for ages. He knew he’d been taken by the Rage and been maddened for a long time but he didn’t remember that. He wasn’t mentally present so much as he was convinced that the fight wasn’t over. Was it over?

“What about us? We’ve given you a chance at partial revenge. What did your allies give you?”

“Honor! Respect! Family! Love! What is that here, Ezekyle!?”

A hand clasped around Ruzal’s throat and squeezed slightly. “We have brotherhood. We have honor. We have respect if you earn it. Love is a lie, and if you intend to cling to it, you’ll choke like your precious Sanguinius.”

“You have no right to say his name!” Ruzal screamed, headbutting Abaddon and feeling another sharp sting in his back. Two stings. One on each shoulder. Abaddon cursed in Cthonic and stepped back, watching.

“No right? What right have you to say his name? Not only did you lose that battle, but you did nothing to save him. He’s as much dead because of your inaction as he is because of Horus’s weapons.”

“And Horus is dead because of yours!” Ruzal shrieked, feeling something tear from his back. 

The agony was exquisite, though. The chunks of skin dangling from the torn open wounds and the hollow, pointed bones shoving themselves out of his shoulderblades. He felt gushing of blood down his spine and the soft pops and creaks as the mutations took hold helped his raspy breaths slow. He could feel an itch crawling up the new bones as flesh coated them. The flap of unclothed meat caught in an unnatural breeze slowed as the skin stiffened and pinfeathers began poking through. Thousands of tiny rips sounded as the massive wings - a 32 foot span he would later learn - began to steady themselves. Ruzal spat blood and small chunks of bone as he tried to move them, trying to escape to high ground.

“That’s...not what I expected,” Abaddon’s voice said from what felt like miles away. Ruzal ignored him, still tugging against the chains and trying to fly. His urge only grew more desperate as the feathers sped their growth, itching and cutting through the infant skin. Finally, finally they responded, and he heard slaps into the ground as the dangling chunks of flesh were cut free. The first flap was weak, nothing more than a wild movement. Soon, though, the movement was steady, like swimming through gentle waters. He could change the pace if he wanted. Sometimes faster, sometimes slower. Each flap made them stronger; he kept trying to get off the ground and despite the instinct and need, his feet never left the ground. 

_ You need to rest, now, _ a ten-toned voice whispered in his mind’s ear.  _ They will carry you one day, but not until you’ve accepted your task. _

Ruzal paused, panting for breath as his wings relaxed behind him. The room came back into focus, not some distant world or sun-bathed sky, but a cell coated in more blood than he knew he had. He felt something touch the wings and he startled. 

“They are soft,” Abaddon stated, only to sputter as he was smacked in the face by Ruzal’s wings. He coughed twice and a feather fell to the ground; Ruzal watched it with his peripheral vision. “That was uncalled for!”

“Don’t touch me without permission,” Ruzal growled between pained breaths. He was so hungry. A hunger that would only be sated with blood. Perhaps if Abaddon got close again, he could handle the gnawing in his stomach and mind.

_ Blood, blood, blood, _ another voice whispered. Loud. Sharp. Angry.  _ Always need more blood. _

Ruzal felt his fangs dig into his lips. He parted them slightly, a weak pant escaping as he tugged against his bindings.

“Don’t slap me with your wings!” Abaddon snarled. He spat on the ground and a few spit-soaked down feathers landed on the floor. He wasn’t really offended, Ruzal knew, but he had always been prone to react with anger. The nagging in the back of Ruzal’s mind made him confident that angry outbursts weren’t uncommon amongst the chaotic legions. Then a giggle; not male, not female. A giggle, a caress down his cheek, but nothing was there. Not really. Or at least, not in realspace.

_ Sometimes you have to give to get, you know, little Angel, _ an androgynous voice teased. The Dark Prince, She who Thirsts? He couldn’t be sure. The voice was extreme, though. Excessively perfect and regardless of how he tried to deny it, the sound appealed to him. He didn’t really know much about the dark gods, he realized. Only that they now plagued him.

_ Ah, plagues, not really my thing, but… _

_ They are certainly mine, little ones!  _ a raspy voice bellowed, far too jovial to be as sickly as it sounded. Ruzal, however, felt violently ill and something growing from his skin. Or sprouting. He looked towards his shoulder only to feel Abaddon running a hand over the sore spot. Again, his wings responded to slap the Despoiler away but he dodged.

“You’re being quite rude,” Abaddon stated as he continued to prod the place that hurt. “But it also seems like you’re flowering.”

“After what you just did, you call me rude - wait, what? I’m...flowering?” Ruzal asked, unable to maintain the anger as his mind was fascinated with the concept of the newness. It was odd that he couldn’t focus on one emotion. That instead he bounced around from feeling to feeling, trying to find the one that caused him the most pain and pleasure at the same time.

“Yes, you are sprouting flowers from your skin...I would guess they are parasitic. But that said, you now have to make an oath. One of the four, all of the four, or die where you stand.”

That was all Abaddon said, though Ruzal felt him closer, a blade tracing the ports on his chest. He took in a sharp breath and considered what all would happen if his brothers found that he joined chaos. That he had been mutated into a semblance of their fallen father and bore that twisted crown as a way to mock them.  _ No. I won’t fight them. I won’t fight any astartes. _

“I can hear your thoughts right now. If you will not fight astartes, who will you fight?”

“How can you hear my thoughts?”

“Drach’nyen hungers, but he is not so hungry that he will steal your life. Yet. He is a fascinating daemon, truly. And a valuable ally and weapon. You could be the last two as well, assuming you will fight,” Abaddon said. Ruzal shivered again, realizing the blade pressed against his chest was none other than the daemon weapon of murder. The one that had freed him from the Rage somehow.  _ The only escape from the Rage is death.  _

“I...will fight any xenos, any mortals, or anyone who attacks me or the vessel I am resident to…” Ruzal muttered. “But I will not start a fight with my brothers, regardless of their symbology. I do not crave war anymore, Abaddon.”

A heat ran through Ruzal’s gut and he knew his answer had been rejected. Death would soon take him, as blood poured from his stomach.

Except he had not been stabbed, nor were his guts dangling from his abdomen. The heat was boiling now, filling his entire body. He gasped as it burned through every cell, from his toes to his wingtips to the top of his skull. And then he screamed out in agony, his ancient language coming to his lips as he confessed his pain.

Then the pain was gone and he hung limply in the chains. He shuddered twice as tears fell from his face.

“Very well. I will find a task for you to do. A thrall will bring you something to drink in an hour. You must forgive me for forcing you to suffer hunger and thirst, but that is the way of things on the  _ Vengeful Spirit _ . You have earned favor briefly. Now you must maintain it, or mutation is the least of your worries.”

“Abaddon, don’t leave me!”

The footsteps leaving paused for a fraction of a second with a small sigh. And then, the only thing left to comfort Ruzal were his own weakened sobs and heavy breathing between.


End file.
